A Knight In Her Arms (Knights of Passion) (3 page)

“They call you Ice Queen,” his voice was a rumble in his chest.

Somehow she met his eyes, her own lids so heavy she found them difficult to open. “Yes. I am.”

He smiled
. “Are you?” Now his hand was on her inner thigh and she found herself opening her legs to allow him easier access. His fingers slid into the wet folds, stroking, finding the round pearl of her clitoris. She gasped and strained toward his fingers. Wanting more, needing more.

“You are hot. For an Ice Queen.
Do you want me to stop?”

“
No. Please . . .” she heard herself struggle with the words.

He took her hand where it gripped his shoulder and slowly brought it down to the water. Her eyes widened as she felt the hard length of him beneath the soapy surface.

She should have snatched her hand back, but he was still caressing her pearl and something new and exciting was tightening and growing inside her. She found herself grasping him, running her hand up and down his cock, feeling him grow harder still.

“I’ve dreamed of you,” he said in a harsh voice. “You’re no Ice Queen, Isabella, and I’ll prove it.”

Deftly he ran his fingers across her tight folds, bringing her to her climax. Sweet ecstasy spread through her, something she had never felt before and had not believed existed until now. She wanted to scream, and instead pressed her face against his chest and bit him to stifle the sounds. She heard him curse, but then his arms wrapped around her, holding her, and his warm breath was in her hair.

She
sprawled against him, boneless, breathing in the spicy male scent of him. In a moment she would have to sit up, to face him, to say something, but she hardly knew what. The Ice Queen had been shattered and he must be bursting with triumph.

“Lady? I did not mean to hurt you.”

“You did not hurt me.”

Her hair had come loose and
the heavy weight of it sent it tumbling into the water, and now it hung heavy and sodden about her. She wondered if she looked as stunned as she felt. She tried to meet his blue eyes but her own skittered away before she could tell whether he was triumphant or not, and she stumbled to her feet, clinging to the wall to stay upright.

“We will speak later,” she said in a
low voice, and pushing through the arras, left the room.

She thought he might have called her name but she couldn’t hear above the pounding of her heart and the tap of her running slippers as she flung herself up the stairs to her private rooms.

Her body had betrayed her. She had shown herself to be as weak and unreliable as other women, when a handsome man gave them that certain glance. What would happen to her now, would he take advantage, mock her in front of her servants and soldiers, treat her with the contempt that Hamon had always treated her?

When Isabella reached her room she flung herself down on the bed and did something she had not done since
before her wedding to Hamon.

She
let her emotions free and wept.

***

Isabella pushed her food around her plate and pretended to listen to the conversation but if she was honest the meal seemed to go on forever. She wanted it to be over; she wanted it to be tomorrow and Freemantle at her gate and the battle begun. Isabella could manage that, she could cope with fighting and orders and strategies.

She could not cope with Alric and the effect he had upon her.

To her relief he hadn’t shown by word or gesture or even glance what had happened between them. He treated her with courtesy and respect, and made some suggestions about her garrison.

“Tomorrow at first light we will prepare,” she said and he agreed. “I have posted lookouts in case they reach us tonight.”

Alric nodded. His squire had shaved him and with his golden hair and handsome face he looked every inch a maiden’s dream. “Wise move, my lady. But I doubt they will be here before late tomorrow, or even the day after. Freemantle seemed in no hurry. He considered himself victorious already.”

Isabella’s lip curled. “Then he will be shown the error of his ways.”

Noticing Alric’s goblet was empty, she nodded at a servant to fill it from the jug. The feast had been prepared at short notice but as usual Isabella had excelled in adversity, showing Godestone at its best.

As for herself, she was wearing her best
dress, with her emerald studded girdle. Joan had brushed her long hair, and if she noticed it was damp she said nothing.

“You spoke of a new style?” Isabella said, and tried not to see the speculation in the girl’s expression. “Perhaps you should try it tonight, Joan.”

“Yes, my lady!”

Hamon
had hurt Joan. She had come upon them together, the girl sobbing while Hamon pushed into her from behind. Isabella had been so angry that she’d struck him, beaten at him until Joan was able to escape, but he had only laughed at her. After that she took care to keep the timid girl away from her husband and she knew Joan loved her for it. In a way they were tied together by that awful event, and yet neither had ever mentioned it.

“Lady Isabella.”

Her thoughts were interrupted.
Alric was turned toward her. She forced herself to meet his brilliant gaze, forced her pulses to remain steady. Thinking of Hamon helped, remembering his cruelty and humiliation kept her from falling prey to this man.

“How is your leg, sir?” she said hastily, to put him off. She had a feeling he was about to mention things she did not want mentioned.

“My leg is fit and well, as am I, my lady.”

She suddenly found herself remembering his fingers
moving between her legs, the shaft of pleasure that had pierced her, and with the memory came a return of the longing ache.

“Lady . . .” His voice had dropped lower. He must have seen the wantonness in her eyes.
He reached to cover her hand with his own and she stiffened, hardly believing he would dare to touch her, here, in her own hall, in front of everyone.

“Release me, sir,” she hissed. “You forget yourself.”

He let his hand fall away. “I don’t forget anything,” he retorted, “unlike you, Isabella.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “You say that Stephen will not force me to wed anyone, but I wonder, Alric, whether you may not be planning such a union for yourself.”

He looked angry. Good.

“Do not think,” and she leaned closer, so that no one else could hear, although the hall was noisy enough, “that what happened today means anything to me. I have forgotten it. If you try to use it against me, to persuade me to marry you, or to persuade Stephen that I need to be married, then I will have you thrown from my gates, Freemantle or not.”

She stood up and, after one last furious look, she turned, her head high and her back straight, and left the hall.

Joan was waiting for her, eager to see if her braided and coiled hair was remarked upon. “I bet Alric noticed,” she said, preparing her lady for bed.

Isabella stiffened. “Why him in particular?” she said icily.

Joan jumped, realising she had said something her mistress did not like. “Only . . . you were so upset when . . . well, it matters not.” 

But it did matter, Isabella realised. It mattered very much. And Joan of all people could help her, because Joan had been with her since she was a child. Joan knew as much about Isabella as her own mother.

“Joan,” she said, her voice stiff with nerves. “I wonder. Do you recognise Alric? I think . . . I wonder if I might have met him before.”

Joan blinked at her. She looked pleased. “Lady, he is from Wenton,” she said softly.

Isabella frowned. “I know the name but I can’t recall . . .”

Joan smiled her gentle smile.
“You went there with your father when you were but a child of eleven years, lady. You were betrothed to the heir of Wenton, but then your father became Matilda’s man and changed his mind and the betrothal was broken. By then he’d decided Hamon was the better choice. You’d always hoped that matters could be mended with Alric, and I remember you sobbing. You said he had lovely blue eyes and when he’d scratched himself and you’d bound his arm too tightly with your bandages he hadn’t complained at all, and only asked you to remove it when his fingers began to turn blue.”

Isabella
cried out softly, her hands clasped tightly against her breast, as if her heart might leap out. How could she have forgotten? Had she really put such a memory so deep inside her? Or was it just that to survive her nightmare marriage to Hamon she’d been forced to blot out all the good things that went before.

“His name was Alric,” she whispered. “He had fair hair, like the sun, and blue eyes like the sea, and when he smiled at me I could not help but smile back. I wanted so much to be
married to him, and when my father changed his mind, I was distraught.”   

Alric. He remembered her and she had not remembered him. But what was he doing here? Was it really a quirk of fate that had brought him to Godestone?
I heard of a plan,
he’d said. He’d come riding fast to her aid and she had treated him horribly. Was that the person she had become?

Now h
er own words in the great hall came back to her and suddenly she felt herself cringe inside. He had come to her aid and she had accused him of trying to trick her into marriage. Joan had finished disrobing her, and suddenly she knew she needed to go and find Alric, she needed to speak to him.

“Where is Alric?” she asked Joan.

The maid didn’t seem to find anything odd in her request. “He is sleeping in the little room off the great hall, lady. He said his leg pained him and he did not want to disturb his men.”

His leg pained him, of course it did, but he did not complain. Isabella felt even more embarrassed by her behaviour. She
thanked Joan and waited until the maid had left, and then she stood up, throwing a warm shawl about her shoulders, over her night attire, and went out of her door.

The
room was lit by a single candle, and as she stepped away from the arras, she saw he was lying on a bed that had been brought in for him, made more comfortable with furs and cushions. He was dozing, but as soon as he heard her, he grabbed at his sword on the floor beside him, moving to stand and fight.

“Isabella!”

She came quietly forward, reaching to press him back onto the bed, stooping over him. Her braid fell over her shoulder, tickling his face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I had forgotten but now I remember. Alric, I’m so sorry.”

His smile gleamed in the moonlight as he reached for her, tugging her down beside him. “We might have been husband and wife,” he whispered.

“Instead I was wed to Hamon,” she replied, and bit her lip. If only her father had chosen Alric, how different her life would have been.

“You were always trying to fix up my cuts and scrapes,” he murmured, brushing her cheek with his fingers. “You saw yourself as a healer even then, Isabella.”

Her body was cold and she snuggled closer to him, feeling his strength surrounding her. He pulled her under the coverings, wrapping his arms about her, nuzzling at her throat
.

“I always kept track of you,” he rumbled. “I thought I might come to visit you, but at Wenton there was fighting with Matilda’s army, and
we lost it. My father died and I was alone for a long time. I learned to fight, I made friends,” he reached to touch the tattoo on his arm, “I grew up, and now I have my lands back again. I am a wealthy man, Isabella. I do not need a wealthy wife.”

She
searched his eyes for the contempt she feared she’d find there, but there was none. He humbled her. “I’m sorry. I am so used to men wanting me for Godestone.”

“Hush.” He kissed her mouth, and she was surprised to taste salty tears
on his lips. Was she crying again? It seemed as if Alric’s arrival had opened a dam inside her. All the pain, all the ice, was melting away.

As he kissed her she returned his embrace, welcoming him
with every fibre of her being. Never had she been held like this—any doubts were swept away and as his kisses became more passionate, deeper, his tongue thrust into her willing and open mouth and met her own.

With murmurs and
caresses, he undressed her, and then his hands were on her naked body and she felt the heat of him everywhere as his firm muscular body pressed against her soft flesh. She wanted him inside her desperately but instead he was kissing her all over—her neck, her breasts, licking and kissing and teasing her nipples. Then he moved down to her belly and his fingers slid through the hair at the apex of her thighs and into the slippery folds of her secret places. She gasped as she felt a finger enter her and then held her breath when his kisses moved down and his tongue lapped at her, back and forth, before he latched onto her pearl and sucked hard. Her release was an explosion of ecstasy, and she cried out with the joy of it.

“Oh Alric. I
did not know there could be such pleasure.”

“There is more, Isabella, much more.”

His cock was as big and hard as she remembered from the bath, butting against her thigh as he positioned himself between her legs. She was wet and ready for him, and she welcomed his cock willingly into her body. He stretched her, filled her, but she couldn’t seem to take enough of him. “Harder, oh Alric harder,” she moaned, her fingers digging into his buttocks, encouraging him to thrust again and again until at last she came, this time with him inside her. A moment later he came too, with a deep groan of pleasure, spilling his seed inside her.